


The Gypsy Nobleman's Convenient Husband

by magnificent



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Adoption, Canon Era, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Historical Inaccuracy, Inheritance, Inspired by Princess Diaries, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Nobility, Sorry Not Sorry, aka Javert gets rich quick, bad romance novel title, in my France everyone is gay, not as slutty as the title makes it sound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 23:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17110361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: Javert’s father may have been a criminal, but he was also the bastard son of Vicomte Hercule-Pierre Auguste Maurel de Pas-de-Calais—who remained otherwise childless. On the Vicomte’s deathbed, Javert is found, summoned, and named the sole heir to the entire region: M sur m and Arras included. His only stipulation? He must marry within the year, or give up his title and lands to the crown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akatonbo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akatonbo/gifts).



> In this au, there are some small changes: with Javert arriving late to M sur m, he misses JVJ’s cart feat. While he still has the argument with Monsieur le maire over Fantine, he never writes his angry letter to Chabouillet; our beloved mayor’s identity stays intact. There are less suspicions, and less tension overall. 
> 
> This was written as a prompt for Sewerchat's Solstice Exchange! My person was akatonbo (sorry it's a bit late; I was going along quite well with this, and then real life came and kicked me in the rear.) Anyways, you didn’t give many details on the prompt, so I dropped over to your DW and looked at your likes/dislikes. Marriage of convenience was a trope you said you liked, so I hope this is okay! (And I added the “Javert gets a cat” bit you said you wanted; that'll be coming up in future chapters.)
> 
> Happy Solstice!

 

Poullain is more asleep than not when the door to the stationhouse bursts open, letting in a waft of frigid air and more than a few snowflakes. He winces, his nose twitching, and attempts to rouse himself—but the night is late, and he is too far gone. He manages to partially open one leaden eye before it drops, and he slumps back in the seat at the failure of his monumental task.

Hopefully, he thinks, it is not Javert. If the Chief Inspector has returned early from his nightly patrol—but that never happens. Inspector Javert always stays out far later than scheduled. It is probably only Paquin. Or Bourbeau—

A riding crop slams upon his desk so hard that it rattles the inkwell, making Poullain jerk upright with a loud snort, his eyes going wide.

“Poullain!” Javert snaps. “Have you any sense at all? Sleeping while on duty? You couldn’t even rouse yourself when I opened the door. Half the town could have come through and you wouldn’t have known!”

“Yes sir!” Poullain barks, still dazed with sleep.

Javert scoffs, removing his hat and brushing it clear of snow before stalking away to his office. “Stay awake for the rest of the night. If it proves too difficult for you, spend the rest of your shift standing. God knows we spend enough time behind our desks so as it is.”

“Yes sir!”

The instant Javert is out of sight, Poullain collapses into his chair as if his strings have been cut; he lets out a long sigh, and then looks forlornly at the paperwork on his desk. More things to file… more reports to finish…

A few moments later, he’s fast asleep once more.

It isn’t deep, of course; no matter what the Chief Inspector says, he’s a man of pride. He’d never let himself fully relax on the job. If someone were to come in, he’d know. And if they had prisoners in the cells, he wouldn’t be sleeping at all. But, well, Montreuil-sur-mer has been a quiet town since Monsieur le Maire came into office, and with Chief Inspector Javert finishing the job… Poullain can afford to shut his eyes every so often…

The door opens a second time, although Poullain doesn’t notice it past the vague annoyance that comes from the second rush of cold. He frowns and shivers under his greatcoat, and then falls asleep once more. A loud snore cuts through the air.

“Monsieur?”

He hears it, through the veil of sleep, but the word has no meaning.

“Ah… Monsieur?”

There’s a sharp rap on his desk, and he bolts upright once more.

“No, Inspector, I was not asleep!” he shouts, and then his gaze fixes on the young courier standing before his desk. “Ah. Hm. My apologies.”

The courier blinks. “I have an urgent message for Chief Inspector Javert, from Arras,” the man says. “Is he available?”

“Should be in his office,” Poullain says, and eyes the note that the courier is holding. “I can take it to him.”

“No, monsieur,” the man says. “It must be delivered directly to the Inspector. It is a matter of grave importance.”

Poullain scratches his whiskers, and nods. He’d  _ really  _ like to know what’s in that note now. “I’ll fetch him for you.”

Javert, of course, is studiously working over reports, taking down details from the reports of other officers and compiling it into some kind of theory or proposal or another. Poullain doesn’t have much of a mind for those sort of numbers, so he’s happy to leave it to the Inspector and Monsieur le Maire to work out on their own. The Chief glances up sharply at Poullain’s entrance. Papers are strewn about him; Poullain might be alarmed if he didn't already know that this is Javert's preferred method of work: a great amount of disorder (and angry muttering, if reports are particularly late or out of order), and then reorganization and a restoration of calm.

“Well? What is it?” Javert has ink streaked across his left hand.

“Man to see you, Chief.”

“Hmpf.” A few brisk strides takes Javert from his office and right to the courier. “Thank you,” Javert says, taking the letter, “you may go.”

The courier shakes his head. “I am to wait for a response.”

Javert’s lips thin, but he opens the envelope with one crisp movement, scans the note, and shakes his head.

“This is impossible,” he says. “You have the wrong man.”

The courier shakes his head. “You are Chief Inspector Javert?”

“Yes.”

“And this is Montreuil-sur-mer?”

“Of course, you need not treat me as a fool.”

“Then you are the proper recipient of this note, monsieur. Please, you must either come at once or send a reply.”

Javert looks cross, but instead of speaking once more to the harried courier, he nods at Poullain. “Keep watch over the stationhouse. I must attend to a matter of some urgency. Please, let Monsieur le Maire know that I will, regretfully, be unable to speak with him tomorrow morning.”

“Of course, Chief Inspector.”

He’s all the more curious, of course, when he sees Javert exit without even returning for his hat; the Inspector has a predisposition for understatement, and yet he has forgotten a key part of his attire and is on his horse in but a moment, clattering down the street at a gallop just seconds later.

Poullain sinks back down into his chair after all the excitement has passed, and sighs. Perhaps he  _ should  _ remain awake. If Javert comes rushing back in after an hour’s time, he wouldn’t like to be too sleepy to be of assistance.

It’s because of this, then, that in three hours, he is nearly finished and working on his reports that the door opens, and yet  _ another  _ courier strides in.

“I have an urgent message from Arras!” the young man calls out. “It is for Chief Inspector Javert!”

Poullain grunts. “Another one of you? It’s alright, the Inspector’s already got the message.”

“He…” the courier blinks. “He has?”

“Yes, of course. Just this evening. Heard the news and went off in a gallop.”

“Well,” the young man says musingly, “I suppose he would.”

“Quite.”

“Hm. Ah… well, would you see that he gets this letter regardless?” the courier asks.

“Of course,” Poullain says, and takes it. Curious; it’s postmarked from the stationhouse in Arras, and the other one wasn’t. Perhaps this one has extra information? But it’s no matter if Javert already halfway to Arras. The two must have somehow missed each other. Perhaps if Javert stopped to rest his horse, Poullain thinks, the courier would have missed him on the way. And there’s no indication that this was even the same young man who had originally taken the message, since there are quite a few postings along the road from Arras.

He gives the man a polite nod as he leaves, and returns to his work. He’s careful to set the letter down underneath his piles of work; that way, when he leaves, he won’t miss it.

Of course, this is under the expectation that he’ll actually  _ finish  _ all of his work for the evening. In another hour, Poullain is fast asleep, and in another two, he’s being relieved from his shift. The last report he had been working on is rubbish, and so it is thrown into the fire. Along with it goes a certain letter from Arras, explaining that a certain ex-convict that Javert had known was to be held on trial. Poullain does not notice or remember, and neither will Javert ever discover that a man by the name of Champmathieu was on trial, judged, and found not guilty of the crimes of a man named Jean Valjean.

And neither does a mayor known as Jean Madeleine discover of this trial: instead, that very same evening, he also makes his way to a town by the name of Montfermeil, retrieves a young girl in need of help, and returns within a few days.

Neither man is aware of the way that their lives have been altered by the course of two significant letters, and the incompetence of a single man long past his prime.

 

* * *

 

 

During the entire eight-hour ride to Arras, Javert’s mind is racing. Over and over, recalling the message:

_ “Chief Inspector Javert: Your grandfather, Hercule Maurel de Pas-de-Calais, is on his deathbed and has bid you to come at once. It is unlikely that he will survive the night. Please arrive with all haste. _

_ Sincerely, Ludovic Jaquemound” _

Javert cannot believe this letter to be correct, because he has not heard of either man in his life, and furthermore, he does not know the name of his own father. It is why his mother neglected to dictate a surname for her only child, why Javert has spent all thirty-six years of his life without having ever met another relative of his own, save his mother.

It is so obviously some sort of scam or extortion, and therefore Javert is duty-bound to investigate it to the fullest extent. But the questions continue: why would he, of all people, be chosen as this group’s mark? He has little means, no money to pay to try to save an old man’s life. He may be Chief Inspector, but it translates merely to a great amount of work and little compensation; there is hardly any respect, either, not from the townspeople and certainly not from the scum he takes from the streets and into the cells.

Monsieur le Maire, however… the man has always treated him with respect. Javert warms under the memory of memory of kindly brown eyes, crinkling at the edges with genuine pleasure upon recognition of Javert. The cordial meetings they share every morning, drawn out moments near the end, when Javert has finished his tea and Madeleine is asking him several more questions—sometimes ones that he has asked before. The care that Monsieur le Maire takes in asking for his hat and coat—his eyes when Javert bids him good-day—

Jean Madeleine is a wealthy man.

The realization strikes him all at once: of course it is not Javert that these con men seek to fool; he is not their primary target. It must be Monsieur le Maire, through some sort of tangential means. An independently-wealthy individual, older and kindly, without any kind of family—someone that this  _ Ludovic Jaquemound  _ could fleece without hesitation or guilt. A crime without mess or victims, at least to the mind of a criminal; M. Jaquemound would have no convictions over robbing a gentleman blind, not when he still owns a well-to-do factory and runs a town. One might think that Monsieur le Maire would not deserve his rightful earnings, except that Jean Madeleine, above all, is nothing less than a saint.

Javert didn’t always hold this opinion. There were times, early on in his instatement as Chief Inspector of Montreuil-sur-mer, that he had suspicions about the man named Jean Madeleine. A retiring nature, crushing amounts of modesty, and a carelessness of his wealth and wellbeing that Javert had been certain he was not the man he claimed to be.

But, of course, things change in time. It was, simply, Javert’s own cynicism that caused him to doubt. Because how could a man be so giving without having anything to hide? How could one be so naive to walk the streets (Monsieur le Maire or not) at night, without any kind of protection at all, and invite the homeless to sleep at his hearth, or in his guest rooms?

How often, Javert muses, had he himself seen Madeleine out on his own patrols? How often had he joined with him, under a black and cloudy veil that hid them both from the stars: one man driven to crush lawbreakers under fists and baton, the other to lift them up into a life of godliness?

The sun is rising when he arrives in Arras. He slows his horse as he approaches civilization, mindful of citizenry jostling near his steed, and unwilling to push the animal so hard when he has already arrived. Farmers were tending to fields and livestock in the outskirts of the town, and he thinks back to the letter:  _ It is unlikely that he will survive the night. _

Will he, indeed, be arriving to meet a dead man? How far is Monsieur Jaquemound willing to take this farce?

Perhaps, he thinks, he was never meant to meet his supposed ‘grandfather’ at all. It would make the most sense if they had a fresh corpse waiting for him instead, knowing that a letter from Arras to M sur m would not arrive until it was too late.

More suspicious was that no return address was provided, and Javert thinks on this as well as he leaps down from the saddle. No man would waste his time on a whim, unless they were particularly foolish, and so he wonders if someone is perhaps meant to meet him here in the square.

But there is no one waiting; he is forced to tie his horse outside the nearest tavern and step inside, eyes searching for the innkeeper.

“A word, Madame,” he says to the portly woman bustling through the maze of tables. His Inspector’s uniform is given a critical up-and-down before she stops before him.

“Yes, Monsieur Inspector?”

“I am looking for a man by the name of… Hercule Maurel.” His mouth thins with distaste. “Have you heard of this man?"

“Hercule-Pierre? Why, you must be speaking of the Vicomte, Monsieur. Yes, men have been arriving from all over to pay their respects before he passes, God rest his soul. The Vicomte is staying in his winter château—just south of the city proper.”

Javert’s interest is piqued at this news: then this is no small-time extortion plot. Something involving a Vicomte, of all people… might there be some scheme afoot with the executor of the gentleman’s will?

Carefully, he reforms his theories as he returns to his horse—if a Vicomte is involved, then Monsieur le Maire is unlikely to be the target—it must be something to disadvantage the Vicomte himself. Bribery, perhaps? If Javert decides to play complicit to this executor’s design, will he be asked to give the executor some percentage of money from the Vicomte’s earnings?

But, then, why him? Why attempt to bribe an Inspector from a town many hours away?

Questions are still forming in his mind as he approaches a beautiful countryside château, an affair more “charming hunting lodge” than “strict and stately palais”. Beige stonework makes up the majority of the home, aged but not crumbling. Greenery (now dead in the heart of the winter) surrounds the home, extensive rose gardens blackened with frost framing the house and continuing out into the snow-covered fields beyond. English ivy climbs the walls of the estate, nuzzling at the windows and tugging at the roof, grayed out from the cold, leaves peeling along the stonework. Rarely has Javert had the opportunity to see old wealth, seated deeply into the land and home, but this is clearly what it is: if the Vicomte had been appointed rather than born, he would not have had the time or finances to create such a luxurious, if overgrown, manor.

Javert must fight down hesitation as he approaches. Even now, there is a small but persistent voice in the back of his mind:  _ “You do not belong here, boy. Your place is in the prisons, with the bones of your whore mother.” _

He pushes the thought away.

He has been summoned here, and if nothing else, there is a crime to investigate.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, Javert is happiest when he has a crime to solve.

 

Given the state of the Vicomte’s countryside château—overgrown but tastefully trimmed so as to not allow the plants to consume the property—Javert is not entirely surprised when a liveryman meets him at the stables, ready to take his horse without question. His clothing is fine for his appointment, good cloth making up the servant’s heavy winter jacket, even stitching without error. An emblem is embroidered over his breast; Javert catches a glimpse before the liveryman leads Gymont away. A diagonal black slash, broken by the silhouette of a howling wolf.

“You must be Chief Inspector Javert,” a voice calls from behind him, and Javert turns a critical eye upon the newcomer.

Bald and puffing, the man is well-put together despite his hurry. He is clad in the same style of clothing as the other servant, not in appearance but in quality. The servants are as well-paid as any servant of the crown, Javert thinks, and this only serves to make his suspicions grow. For where else would these men be attaining their coin, if they are not stealing it from their dying master?

“I am Javert,” he responds. He scans the man once more: brass buttons shined to perfection, the glimmer of a pocket-watch chain inside the coat. Gold. He’s dressed as any gentleman poised to step into society. “And you are?”

“Monsieur Jaquemound,” the man says, and Javert’s hackles rise. The picture fits together more clearly: a secretary, a trusted advisor, someone who has been skimming assets for decades and now stands to make profit. He has motivation, he has a small amount of evidence. All he can do now is chase the leads he has been given.

“You were the one who wrote to me,” he says smoothly. “You said that my grandfather would be dead by sunrise. Is he yet alive?”

Jaquemound makes a small noise of hurt at Javert’s blunt words. “I—yes, he is, in fact, and is waiting for you. I daresay that’s the only way he’s been able to last as long as he has. You must hurry, Monsieur.”

The man—secretary, executor, confidant: perhaps all three—leads Javert through the château with all haste. Javert catalogs the items around him: a gilt frame housing an oil portrait of a distinguished gentleman, a delicate vase displayed upon a marble pedestal, the opulent carpets in the entrance hall and in the corridor they are now traversing. Doubtless Jaquemound has designs on each and every one of these pieces.

“I will admit,” Javert begins carefully, “that I am surprised to have received your letter. Both of my parents are long-dead. I had not imagined to yet meet my grandfather.”

“It was a well-timed blessing,” the man says, puffing again after having climbed the stairs. “The Vicomte has been searching for any hint of a man who might be his descendant. A trial through paperwork and much investigation.”

He pushes open a door. “Through here, Monsieur.”

Javert takes a deep breath, and enters.

Instantly, his skin prickles with sweat. Though it is midwinter, the room is astoundingly warm, the fireplace ablaze in what amounts to a small bonfire. The iron grille separating the logs from the rest of the room bulges with embers and crackling flames. All the shades are drawn, casting a low and sinister light from the fireplace alone.

His gaze moves to the skeletal visage of the man in his bed, dwarfed by the cushions surrounding him. It is as Jaquemound had said: he is yet alive, and so clearly nearer to death than any man Javert has seen before.

“My grandson,” the specter breathes, and Javert stands at attention.

“No, Vicomte,” he replies. “You have made a mistake. I am not your grandson.”

The man coughs, and Jaquemound hastens to the man’s bedside, casting Javert an anxious look, as if begging him to not say another word. Ridiculous, of course. Javert could never participate in such a farce. The least he can offer a titled nobleman is the assurance that justice will be carried out, even if it is only within the last moments of his life.

“Please, slowly now, slowly. Take your time, old friend,” Jaquemound murmurs.

The Vicomte waves Jaquemound away with some mild annoyance, proving a strength and will Javert had not expected. “Come closer, my boy.”

Javert bites his tongue at the demeaning words but obeys, his back stiff. All his life he has wanted to live honestly, and he cannot take advantage of a dying man’s confusion.

“Vicomte,” he says again, “I cannot be your grandson. You see, I am the child of a convict and a whore. Both of my parents died in prison. There is no possible way that I could be descended from a venerable lineage such as yours.”

But the Vicomte is nodding.

“It is not… done,” the Vicomte says. “Not in proper society. That is what everyone told me. To try to search for a man who may not exist.  But I looked anyway. You see, I have no heirs. My wife died childless. Barren. But I did not divorce her. I thought I would be satisfied as the last of my line.  Only… as a youth, before I married, I was prone to certain… indiscretions. A maid, here and there. One of them dismissed months after our dalliance. I thought nothing of it until years later, when I discovered that she had borne a son.”

Javert longs to interrupt; he can see where the Vicomte must be alluding to, but interrupting a dying man might be approaching an impropriety he is not prepared for. Unease churns within him. Is it better to wait and listen? If he lets him continue to speak, is he robbing the Vicomte of last words that could be put to better use?

Ignorant of Javert's indecision, the Vicomte sighs. “Claude Maurel, another man such as you, with no name to speak of and no heritage to support him. I tried to look for them, only to discover that he lived a troubled life and had died in the galleys only months before I realized his parentage. I thought that he was my only chance at an heir until many years later still, when yet another contact of mine recalled a Gypsy woman Claude had kept company with.”

At this, Javert stiffens.

“Vadoma, who had borne a son of her own, during the time when she had known my son.”

Javert’s stance is rigid, because this conversation has taken a turn he did not expect. Vadoma, a name half-remembered; the sound of comfort and home, and all at once he recalls the pinched hunger in his mother’s face, the hoarseness of her voice, an undeniable beauty with a love of stars that she had shared with her son alone.

Somehow, within this tangled web of what should certainly be lies and fraud, he has found glimmers of truth.

“Vicomte,” Javert says at last, “You are correct. Vadoma is… was… my mother. But my mother was also a whore. There is no reason for you to suspect that I am Claude’s son. My mother kept company with many individuals.”

“That is a risk I am willing to take,” the Vicomte acknowledges. “But in you, I see features reflected from my own. A strong jaw. And these eyes may be aging, but I would recognize that proud Maurel nose anywhere.”

Javert’s hand lifts a few inches and then he jerks it back down in embarrassment. It is not often that his features are commented upon without a trace of derision; light brown skin and hard, emphasized features rarely attract positive attention.

“Now that I have seen you for myself…” The Vicomte turns to Jaquemound, clicking his tongue impatiently. “The will, Ludovic, if you would.”

Javert does not imagine the hesitation in the other man, and he takes in the other, smaller details: left fist clenching once, corners of the mouth ticking downwards, a brief furrow in the brow before it is smoothed away.

“Yes… of course.” Jaquemound brings a tray from the bedside table and carefully arranges it upon the Vicomte’s lap.

“With this, Inspector,” he says as he carefully fills in a few lines near the top of the parchment, “you are no longer a nameless man. You have become Javert Maurel de Pas-de-Calais, and therefore the next Vicomte.”

Javert chokes at this, his posture breaking under incredulity. “You cannot—”

“I already have,” the Vicomte says, “although you will forgive me for this last stipulation. Upon my death, you will become my sole heir. Everything that I have is now yours. I do not doubt that you will serve my land and people well as a fine steward of what you have been given. Your record as an Inspector proves that well enough.  However… I fear I have overly taxed my people and household. For so many years since my wife’s death, I refused to marry again, denied my people the assurance of an heir, of the safety of a steady line. If I had not signed this title to you, all of Pas-de-Calais would have been taken by the crown.”

There’s a long pause, during which the Vicomte breathes very quietly. Javert exchanges a glance with Ludovic, who takes a step forward and rests his fingertips upon the gentleman’s pulse.

“Hercule,” he says quietly.

“My friend…” the old man whispers, “do you remember Simone? I still hear her sometimes, the way she used to sing in the mornings... her voice is stronger now.”

“Not yet,” Jaquemound says, more insistently. “You must not leave us yet. Your last charge, Hercule, for your successor.”

Another long sigh, and the Vicomte nods, once. “It will not be long. Javert…”

The Vicomte’s milky eyes sharpen upon him, and all at once Javert bears the full weight of that gaze: it is as if the specter in the bed has breathed in life and draws up straight—like an ember once fanned that bursts into flames and sputters out a moment later.

“My only command to you, my boy… for this title… you must marry someone you could love. Someone who can help you carry your burdens. You must give my people an heir to which they might grow accustomed. A child for this lonely estate… Simone would have been pleased to see it.” The Vicomte’s eyelids droop. “Do not spend your life in bitterness, as I did…”

He opens his mouth once more, and Javert must lean forward to hear his last words: “You have… one year.”

The Vicomte exhales, the fire sighing out along with him, and slumps back into his pillows.

 

* * *

 

 

When Javert rode out to Arras, the last thing he expected was to be attending a funeral. And yet, this is precisely what he finds himself doing three days later: standing at the forefront of a crowd, mourners pressing in all around him without knowledge of his appointment, listening to the priest’s strident voice growing louder and louder as if he is attempting to preach to heaven itself.

He has not had the time, or, indeed, the presence of mind to have sent for clothing appropriate for a funeral and so he is attending in his uniform; greatcoat neatly buttoned, whiskers trimmed, boots polished, and still without his hat.

A light drizzle descends upon them, and he wishes fervently that he had not forgotten his hat in Montreuil-sur-mer, though there is little he can do about it now. He might have sent for it when he asked a letter to be delivered to both the stationhouse and to the maire, explaining his absence without any sort of detail: a death in the family, a funeral he could not miss. But writing those letters took enough of his strength; he could not ask for any more.

In truth, Javert does not know which course of action he should next take.

Since he was a child, he has followed orders.  _ Obey the law, Javert—look at your mother. Do you want to end up like her?  _ and  _ You know the prisons, you would do well working as a guard  _ and  _ There is an assignment available as an Inspector. You should take it.  _ But now there are more orders, difficult ones without a clear path to follow.

_ Serve my land and people. _

_ Do not spend your life in bitterness. _

_ Marry someone you could love. _

The first is easy. As Chief Inspector, his very life is already being spent to track lawbreakers and ensure that they are punished accordingly; and since he is stationed in Montreuil-sur-mer, the streets he patrols are within the larger district of the Vicomte’s land. He could renounce his title and still keep this first command.

The second is concerning as well, but less so; the very nature of the order is vague enough that Javert could likely keep it without changing his life at all. If by “bitterness” the Vicomte meant “dissatisfaction”, then this one will be simple as well. Javert is content with his life, and in fact would much prefer to keep it unencumbered with unwarranted titles. His biggest struggle may be, in fact, keeping these new fortunes from impacting his demeanor. Although—even this he cannot resent, because if Javert truly is the Vicomte’s grandson, then it is own personal duty to take these responsibilities and become a man worthy of them.

But it is the last that Javert finds most concerning and perplexing.  _ Marry someone you could love.  _ What kind of order is that? And a stipulation, no less, of his inheritance? To Javert, who has eschewed interpersonal relationships his entire life because they only distract from his career? His last memory of love is with his mother, and even those sweet and half-forgotten moments have soured under the full knowledge of his mother’s choice of career.

To love, is… is to split priorities. Taking away time and energy from his pursuit of justice. His one true love has been the Law, and he can hardly marry Her.

How is Javert to find someone within the year?  _ He,  _ who has expected to work until his death? Who on earth would he find? Moreover, who would be willing to make their home with him? Who would accept, knowing that they must look upon him every morning and evening, to take meals with him, to… to lie in his bed and desire him?

Of course, there are many who would leap at the chance to wed a Vicomte. Any citizen of France that might desire his newfound (and admittedly vast) financial holdings could be a potential spouse. But as is with all things in the gentry, there are rules that must be followed, and primarily:

He or she must be noble themselves.

Given that Javert’s heritage cannot be proven, he finds that this is a rather foolish stipulation, but Monsieur Jaquemound has been emphatic in defense of tradition.

Javert wonders at this, as he is still mistrustful of Jaquemound’s motivations; might the other man be trying to keep Javert from claiming his inheritance within the year? And yet the man’s logic is sound:  _ Given your mother’s circumstances, you cannot marry from the working populace, Vicomte! Do not give the Crown any further reason for your removal. Your very appointment is taboo itself! _

It  _ sounds  _ as though the steward is attempting to keep Javert as Vicomte, but a man who may or may not have spent the past few decades stealing from his employer, he takes these words with caution. If nothing else, he has a starting point.

He returns to the château with these thoughts swirling in his mind—and, as he has done for the past three days, sweeps past the servants and housekeeper and steward and shuts himself away in the study.

As usual, it is a shock when he first opens the door to the office. Papers are strewn over every flat surface, logbooks dating back for decades opened to specific pages and marked with shreds of paper. The only pile with coherent organization is Javert’s own notes, and even that is growing larger by the hour.

Jaquemound had protested immensely when Javert announced his intentions of performing an audit upon the late Vicomte’s finances, but he would not be dissuaded.

“If I am to inherit,” he had finally said, “I must ensure that there are no discrepancies within the previous records… Why do you protest, Monsieur? Are you concerned by what I might find?”

Jaquemound had gaped at him, and not said another word.

And so Javert has been treating it as he would any other case; without having experienced the luxuries of office, he is able to look upon the records with an unbiased perspective. He had endeavored to find proof of Jaquemound’s theft, but has found few items of suspicion. As steward, M. Jaquemound would be the primary accountant for the Vicomte’s estates; he would likely be careful to hide evidence but not overly so, not when he would be one of the only people with access or interest in the financial records. But there are no unusual withdrawals from the Vicomte’s many accounts, and receipts for every transaction from every banking branch they have business with.

There are a few small items of note, however, concerning payroll. The steward (and primary suspect) Monsieur Ludovic Jaquemound, the housekeeper Madame Alise Donnet, the head seamstress Madame Edmée Cerf, and the maid Mathilde Hémery all have unusually high salaries considering their positions.

Javert will have to do some investigating.

Despite the disaster Javert has made of the Vicomte’s office, it is only a matter of hours before it is restored to its former cleanliness, the logbooks reorganized and neatly stacked according to year by the desk and Javert’s first series of notes burnt within the fireplace. The new set he folds and places into his pocket before summoning the first suspect to the office.

“Monsieur Jaquemound,” he says, and gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Please be seated.”

He thinks that the man looks unusually— _ suspiciously _ —distracted as he obeys. “Thank you.”

Javert takes a moment to take in the steward’s expression, then begins, “How long have you been under the employ of the late Vicomte?”

“Why… going on thirty-eight years now, Seigneur,” the steward replies. “I was hired in the summer of 1786.”

Javert hums. “The logbooks you provided only date back twenty-five,” he says.

The other man blinks nervously. “I… yes, this was the Vicomte’s secondary residence. All the books you see here are only copies. I carry one along with me when I move from château to palais, and update them accordingly. As you have doubtless seen, Seigneur, the book here is up-to-date. But the residence in Calais has records dating back to 1693.”

“Your salary,” Javert says, and looks at the steward calmly, “of fifteen hundred francs per year. It is adjusted every five years to account for inflation despite the fact that your original salary must have been indeed considerable.”

Jaquemound gives a hesitant nod.

“I find myself at a loss as to what might warrant such an astronomical sum.”

The steward fumbles for words, and so Javert continues, “Was the Vicomte paying you out of pity, due to some sort of debts you may have incurred in your past? Was it to maintain your loyalty? Perhaps it is because of your cost of living. Tell me, Monsieur, what is your yearly rent?”

“I… well, Seigneur, I stay with the Vicomte, since I am his… your… servant.” The man is beginning to flush in embarrassment and possibly a bit of anger.

“Then your rent is free.”

“Yes, Seigneur.”

“Interesting.” Javert takes a moment to stand, and paces across the study. “No rent. I presume this also means that you dine with the house staff, or used to dine with the Vicomte.”

“Yes, on occasion, the Vicomte and I shared meals.”

“Then your meals were of no cost as well.”

“Yes,” Jaquemound concedes again.

“I must pose the question of your salary once again, Monsieur. You may see why I am perplexed by this.”

“It is because we were  _ friends,”  _ the steward cries out, clearly frustrated and impassioned by the interrogation. “There was nothing unsavory involved. When we met, I was young and newly-wed, and also the unfortunate inheritor of family debts. The Vicomte did pity me at first, yes, but he maintained my salary out of  _ friendship.” _

“Friendship,” Javert repeats, testing the idea. He could see how it might be possible. From everything he has heard, the Vicomte was a lonely man who kept to himself, taking company only with his household servants and the occasional townspeople. It would not be unusual for a steward, for all intents and purposes the Vicomte’s right-hand man, to be a confidante and not a blackmailer. Has Javert gotten the whole thing wrong? But, no, his suspicions outweigh Jaquemound’s testimony.

“I can see you are not convinced,” Jaquemound says, starting slow, and then his words quicken with confidence and strength as he continues. “But I have nothing to hide. Seignor, you are Vicomte now; you have been raised from humble beginnings to nobility. Before this, though, had you ever attempted to befriend someone who is socially above you? Someone with a great deal of power, or money, or both.”

Javert thinks of the guards in the women’s prison, when he was a boy. The men he’d looked up to in awe and in search of a father figure. There had been no reciprocal interest, no one who had patience for the young bastard of a gypsy woman. Chabouillet, who Javert continues to correspond with, whom he idolizes as well, though he might never admit it. Chabouillet is a friend of sorts; however, they are hardly equal.

And Madeleine. Graceful, calm, quiet Madeleine, with his rough hands and humble demeanor and kind words. Javert thinks about the frisson of excitement that runs through him as he stands in the mayor’s presence, his own self-consciousness and repressed desire to reach out, to speak casually.

He admires Madeleine more than anything else; sees him as an untouchable figure above, something to be coveted but never attained. They can only interact as master and servant, gentleman and gutter-trash, mayor and inspector.

He has not made the attempts that Jaquemound speaks of, not since childhood, in his boyish dedication to the guards at the prison—and yet he understands. He is all too aware of the social boundaries that separate himself and Monsieur le Maire.

“I know my place,” Javert says instead, and before the steward can protest or bluster, he adds, “but continue.”

“One cannot breach such a divide by friendship alone,” Jaquemound concedes. “It takes a certain amount of standing for men to be able to speak to one another as equals. Which is why, then, Hercule decided to hire me at such expense. Once he was certain of my integrity, I immediately joined the household staff. I keep my own residence, but I rarely visit.”

“And your family?”

Jaquemound hesitates. “Stays with me, when I travel with the Vicomte. I have a housekeeper to maintain my lodgings, Seigneur, that is all.”

_ A family, then. Interesting.  _ Javert pounces upon the small pause the steward had given before speaking. “Children?”

“We have not been so blessed, no,” the steward says awkwardly, and Javert lets that line of inquiry die away.

He has learned a great deal, and for now, that is enough. Jaquemound is hiding something, Javert is certain, but he’s been given enough detail that he might begin to interview the rest of the household, to try to find any discrepancies in his testimony.

The story rang true; Javert still cannot trust it. He knows the myriad ways a criminal may utilize to obfuscate the truth. A certain wording, a half-truth or a misrepresentation; all of it can sound flawless and unrecited, filled with genuine emotion, and still be nothing but deception.

Javert taps his fingers idly against the desk as he thinks. Soon, he will know for certain, and Jaquemound will be proven as either an honest man, or a liar to be imprisoned. Justice will prevail. There is no other option.

 

 


End file.
